Err Margin
by Esse
Summary: A tiny viii 'What if...?' ^^;; Kinda dark, kinda strange, kinda confusing...


###  Err Margin 

* * *

'Well yes, it's true, to err is human. But you, my dear, walk the limits, beyond which all is lost. Each of us have the grace of an err margin. Not all of us have the sense to know when we've crossed it.' 

* * *

  


**Disclaimer:** And after much struggling, the lawyers representing Square managed to wrest the cast of FFVIII from Esse's weakened grasp. The restraining order was filed, and Esse was commanded to stay at least three realities away from the objects of her obsession at all times, under penalty of a stern talking to. Undeterred, Esse sat down at her computer and cackled evilly; just because she didn't own the FFVIII cast, didn't mean she couldn't write about them! 

**Notes:** Golly gee, a normal ficcie for once! Or as normal as anything I write can get. This is a little 'What if?' that occurred to me a while back, then wouldn't let go until I'd written it into submission. I don't *think* anyone's done this one before. The timeline bounces around: first person POV takes place in the present, third person POV is the past. The actual change to the plot line is described at the very end. If you're still confused by then, I explain things more clearly in the notes at the bottom. 

**Warnings:** ^^;; none that I can think of. Well, you should have knowledge of the game at least to the end of disk 2. Ya'll got that far, didntcha? ::taps her keyboard thoughtfully:: And I used the word damn once. Whoopsie, now it's twice. Does that *really* need t' be warned about? Oh! And this might be a little dark Yeah, and the Pacific is just a little ocean 

* * *

It's not how I thought it would be. I was expecting the rubble; how could I not? Yet--Trabia hadn't prepared me for this. Perhaps it was because Trabia had been a single--albeit large--structure, while in front of me an entire town was scattered, like so many miniatures destroyed by some spoiled child's temper. The sheer amount of rubble astounded me, until my perceptions shifted, and I realized that, for a city, there should have been far more debris. So many lives, so much dust. The sea, in its green dark way, was striving to wash away the damage, rushing in and wearing away the broken quay, where once the walls of the harbor had held it back. The surrounding grasslands, as if in partnership with that most ancient of entities, spread where the surf could not reach, taking root in blasted crevasses, beginning the slow process of covering the past's misdeeds. Such a bright shroud; translucent pastel poppies, heavy-headed daisies, and the tiny mist-hued blooms of the delicate herb only known by one name--Hyne's Tears. 

My breath frosted in front of me as I traveled down into the ruins. It was cold, so very cold, for early autumn. It worried me, but so many different things weighed heavily upon my heart, I scarcely noticed the added burden. I but pressed my arms to my chest, and hurried on, and berated myself for ever coming. I'd have turned back, if I hadn't known that I'd only hate myself more for the cowardice. If only it hadn't of been so cold. If only I'd had some spark of joy left within me to keep myself warm. 

It should have been silent. Trabia had been silent, the survivors speaking in hoarse, numb whispers. The dead have earned silence. Yet around me the air shrieked, wailed, demanded explanations I couldn't give. The breeze off the coast twisted through the snarled remains, playing a game of hiding and seeking with the shells of decimated houses. It sucked the hazy cloud of my breath away, then weakened, as if tired by its tormenting. But I do not think it will ever be still; it gave voice to those who'd had no chance to scream on that bright --sun-bright laughter-bright-- morning. 

Hyne's Tears only grows in graveyards. Or so I had been taught, by a professor I scarcely remember. He deserves better. What are the dead, but memories in the minds of those who knew them? Though I strive, I can't recall his face, only that he was kind, and meek, and had a fondness for floriculture. Or perhaps it's only his love of flowers I remember, and I add the other traits on an assumption. They depend on us, the dead. We bring meaning to their accomplishments. And now I feel as if I've betrayed them. The entire path I walked down was carpeted with the fragrant buds; I'd never seen so many. 

It felt like hours I walked, through what had, at one time, been busy streets. The cobbles were strewn about, unseated. No natural occurrence could have done it; left them crazed and blackened and weakened to the point where they crumbled at my touch. I know that what I do is needed, but at times all I can see myself as is a destroyer. The people who had once lived in the buildings, now vacant and staring and open to the sky, they'd had desires, plans, futures. And I was the destroyer of hopes and dreams. 

Then, I came to an area less damaged than the rest. No--I saw my mistake; not less damaged, but repaired. Fixed by a hand unskilled at its labor but determined in its task. The roadway smoothed; the quaint, round-cornered houses now roofed, and the wooden window boxes blooming with a profusion of--Hyne's Tears. How could they be in flower, while the chill in the air ached in my lungs? 

In what had been the center square he sat, alone. His hands were busy cutting a piece of tile; his eyes were fixed on the distance, staring at something I could not see. There was a calmness about him that pained me, and I shivered as the frigid touch of the wind caressed me once more. I don't think he noticed the cold. I don't think he'd been noticing much of anything lately. I almost wished he wouldn't notice me. But that would've defeated the purpose of my visit. 

"Zell." 

##  +++ 

"Squall." 

The young man looked up, to see Irvine standing in front of him. He sighed, and ran one hand wearily over his eyes. He was glad, truly glad, that the Galbadian sharpshooter had survived. Happier yet that Selphie and Quistis were back as well; the knowledge that he might have sent them to their deaths had been tearing him apart. He'd never wanted to be a leader. Down in the secret compartments of his psyche--the deep, warm places he denied existed--he *cared* too much, a grievous failing for one who would command. He didn't know if he wanted to win any longer. Surviving seemed so much more an accomplishment. 

"Irvine." He nodded, and began to pass. 

"I was wondering," the mahogany-haired man easily caught up due to his longer stride, "if I could have the mechanics work on something--once they're done repairing the Garden, that is." 

"What?" The brevity was expected. The darkened look in the other man's eyes was not. 

"A surprise for Sefie." A violet gaze was hidden by the wide brim of his weathered hat. "She's been a little depressed lately, what with not knowing what's happened to Trabia and all. I thought she could use a little cheering up." 

The scarred youth halted in mid-step, and leaned out over the rusted pipes that doubled as railing. He didn't like Fisherman's Horizon. He didn't like Mayor Dobe. But mostly, he didn't like himself. "Details." 

"Well," Irvine bashfully pulled at the sleeves of his duster, "she'd been really excited about the Garden Festival, before it was canceled. I thought" 

"You thought to throw her a party," he cut the other man off. Melancholy filled Squall, as he watched the ocean below him heave in weed-choked swells. 

"Yeah," the taller man admitted, taken-aback by the suddenly hostile atmosphere. "It'd be fun, and give her something to take her mind off Trabia." 

"No." 

"Great! Let me go tell her, and" he trailed off, while mouth caught up with mind. "No? What do you mean, no? What would it hurt?" 

"Who." Squall turned around, lungs filled with salt-spray, and the palms of his gloves coated in crystalline bitterness and brilliant corrosion. "The question is, who would it hurt." He began walking again, his only desire a longing for his room, and rest. 

It took a moment for Irvine to register the other's departure; this time around, he wasn't in nearly as much hurry to catch up. "Well, if that's the question, what's the answer?" 

Squall's voice was as worn as he was. "Everyone." He rubbed at his eyes again; they watered with salt-sting. "You'll hear about it soon enough; someone will tell you. The Garden's in mourning." Salt-sting--he'd take any excuse he could get. Commanders weren't allowed the luxury of tears. 

And civilians weren't supposed to die. 

##  +++ 

"Selphie." He said my name quietly, almost as if he couldn't remember how to pronounce the syllables. There wasn't any anger, which I could have handled far easier than what he suddenly presented me. Acceptance. He was supposed to yell at me, accuse me, reject me, not sit there in the middle of the square, eyes locked onto something I couldn't bring into focus. "I was wondering when you'd show up." 

"You're rebuilding." I'm a great one for stating the obvious; the apologies I'd spent weeks preparing fled from my tongue, leaving behind only inanities. 

"Yes." It was a simple answer, and it fell through the leaden air to shatter on the mosaic taking form at his feet. 

"Why?" Oh, I knew there were hundreds of reasons. As many reasons as people whom had once lived there. And it felt like I was picking away at the scabs of a wound poorly healed, yet I had to ask. To understand. "It'll be years, if ever, that anyone will get up the nerve to move here." 

"No one will come." Such surety, and conviction. "No one will live here." Finally, his gaze fixed on me, and I gasped at the drunken blindness that filled the once vibrant orbs. "I restore--to bring some small measure of comfort to them. It pains them, seeing all in ruin." 

Divert, misunderstand, ignore. The only weapons in my arsenal, and I used them for all they were worth. It was the wind screaming, it was. "Well, that's good, keeping yourself busy." 

He smiled at me, if such an empty, warmthless twisting of the lips could be deemed as such. "I suppose. It keeps me from joining them." I blinked watery eyes as the 'for now' hovered between us. 

I sat down; on a wall, a piece of pavement, how could I tell? Although I'm sure Zell could've told me, if I'd asked. The purpose behind my coming slipped away, as I watched him score a red tile in curving lines. The sharp crack it gave off when he snapped it apart seemed oddly of a piece with the day. I ran my hand over the soft layer of flowers, and did nothing more than exist. Sometimes, I think, that's the hardest thing of all. 

"So, how's the battle against the Sorceress going?" 

His question shocked me. Had no one thought to tell him? Or had they just been respecting his privacy? "It's over. It turns out Matron--Edea," I clarified at his look of non-comprehension--he'd missed so much--and wrung my hands, "was being controlled by a Sorceress from the future, Ultimecia. It was hard, but we managed to stop her. But not" I hesitated. He'd already lost so much; did he really need to know? I decided to wait; what harm could come from waiting? I'd already seen the harm rushing into things could do. 

There was no blue in his eyes, just the inky darkness of dilated pupil. "It's okay." He placed the newest piece, cementing it in. "I think I know. Where is she buried?" 

"In the flower field, beside the old orphanage. Oh Zell, you should see it. It's where we all stayed, when we were children." 

"Don't Selphie." He wiped his hands off on his shorts, and came to sit beside me. "Just don't. I'm where I belong." 

"But we need you at the Garden." I twisted my hands against the cloth of my dress, and twitched away from him. 

"I'm needed here more." 

It's that that released my tongue, and freed the question I'd truly come to ask. I needed the answer. I needed closure. I needed--blamed. 

"Please Zell, please, do you hate me?" And I wish I'd been able to keep my voice calm, adult, instead of having it pitched to the childish whine it came out as. 

"Hate you?" He faced me, and proved wrong my belief that dead eyes could show no emotion. "I can't hate you Selphie. If I did, it'd mean I'd have t' hate myself as well, and that--I just can't do." He held up one hand, and silenced my next question with one cold, thin finger. "And how can I forgive ya, when I never blamed you?" 

##  +++ 

"You should speak to him, Squall." 

He crossed his arms, and looked down. He wasn't sure why Quistis had decided on him; there were definitely more empathetic souls in the Garden; people who would know how to handle heart-wracking grief. "He wants to be left alone." 

"Squall" She shook her head, the ragged edges of her hair brushing against the sides of her face. Though she hadn't lived with her foster-family long, she'd taken on their traditions as her own. The dead needed to be mourned; custom demanded her head be shorn. She'd not hesitated; it was a small enough sacrifice. "He needs someone. His family's gone. You don't have to talk, or console, or counsel. Just be there." 

Uncertainly, he shrugged, and left. He wasn't good at interacting with people. Why Quistis thought Zell would want to see *him*, he couldn't fathom. He tried thinking of reasons to visit the other man, but could only come up with excuses why he shouldn't. Decided, he turned around to head to the training center, only to be confronted by an innocuous door. Silently, he cursed his wandering feet; they, it seemed, had made a decision as well. Admitting defeat, he knocked on the door. 

Which opened, exposing a pale, stone-faced Zell. "Yes?" 

"CanI come in?" The leather-clad man looked down, the fur of his jacket brushing against his cheeks. 

The smaller blonde tilted his head, and studied the one waiting out in the hall. "If it's business, can it wait?" 

The scarred man could barely be heard. "It's notnot work related." 

Zell stepped back, and swung the door wide. "Then come on in. 'Cept, I don't think I'll be much company." 

Entering, Squall winced at the destruction of the room. He chose to say nothing; better there, than taken out on cadets elsewhere. There was no place left to sit, though he would have stayed standing regardless. He felt foolish enough as it was, without the added vulnerability of letting down his guard. "Quistis thought you might need company." 

"Quistis should mind her own damn business." He tugged fretfully at his bangs; they straggled down his face, masking whatever expression he might have had. "Has--has anyone figured out a way t' steer the Garden yet?" 

"No." And it hadn't been for lack of trying. The chestnut-haired youth would have given anything for a means of controlling the floating monstrosity the Garden had become. 

"But there might be survivors!" The blue-eyed boy's voice held pent-up anger, and rising terror. His breath quickened, and his hands flitted aimlessly, lacking direction. 

"I know," Squall said, tensing as the shorter boy ran at him. Expecting a fight, he was dumbfounded when Zell wrapped strong arms around him and began sobbing into his shoulder. Feeling the hollowness at the back of his own throat, he returned the embrace, feeling lost. 

"There might have been survivors." The words were all but muffled against the leather of the scarred man's coat. The chances of Zell's almost-plea being true, however, decreased the further the Garden drifted away. 

"I know." What else was there to say? The type of missiles that had fallen were notorious for their ability to *not* leave anything living in their wake. 

##  +++ 

I'd come looking for condemnation, and instead had been gifted with absolution. It was a gift I wasn't sure I could take. How could he be so understanding, sitting in the middle of a memorial? "What do I say Zell?" 

"Nothing." He got up, and stared off into the ocean. "There isn't anything that can be done to right this, just as there's nothing I could say that would ease my guilt over Trabia. Learn to live with it Selphie. Or don't. It's your own decision." 

That again. So close to the surface, it was becoming harder to ignore. "Come back with me! Everyone will be so glad to see you. There's so much work that needs to be done." 

"I couldn't of said it better myself." The air in front of him remained unfogged, while my breath created airy constructs of vapor. "So much to do, and while they have eternity, I don't." 

No no no! The over-powering scent of Hyne's Tears clogged my nostrils, and it finally occurred to me what it had been covering: the equally sweet stench of rot. My jaw clenched tightly, and my shivering stopped, as I temporarily lost my battle against the cold. I could see, now, what Zell had been looking at the entire time. I could see what my fragile mind had tried so hard to hide from me. I could seewhat I shouldn't. 

"Zell!" I pleaded, somehow knowing it was futile. "You don't have to do this." I watched, sickened, as the tattered, hungering remnants of the past surrounded him, laid claim to him; mottled hands and shriek-stretched lips leaching away what small warmth he had left. "Please" I think I would have cried, if my tear-ducts hadn't of been frozen. 

Again that mockery of a smile, only this time, it was touched with sadness. "I can't." Dark, dying, drained eyes. "They *need* me." A single spark, which was soon smothered. "If you have anything worth living for, Selphie, run." 

So I did. Ran and ran, till each breath was a welcome burning, ran till I broke free of the fog, into the heat of the sun-bleached day. Ran in the hopes of leaving my memories behind me, ran till I collapsed in the welcoming arms and sheltering duster of the man I loved. I don't think it was enough. I don't think I'll ever be able to run far enough. 

No one lives in the destroyed town by the sea. But it's far from being empty. 

##  +++ 

The Captain couldn't believe what had happened. He'd been defeated, broken, by three punk kids parading around pretending to be soldiers. He couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry, but was, perhaps, too furious to do either. Such arrogance they'd displayed. Such cruelty. Who had taught them to wound their adversaries, and leave them lying in bleeding heaps on the ground? Had they no mercy? 

He tried calling for help, only to choke on thick, congealing liquid bubbling, mixing with what had already been spilt out on the floor. He had to get to the controls; the kids had set the base's self-destruct, and he had to warn his men. Painfully, he crawled across the floor, leaving bits of himself in his wake. He refused to think about it. 

There. A button push, and the alarm was sounded. Hopefully, the staff would have time to evacuate. Another button push, and the base's final line of defense was activated. With any luck, the intruders would be caught in the blast. His eyesight failing, he peered at the final screen. 

The missiles. The brats had tampered with the missiles' guidance system. With their error ratio set that high, there was no way they'd hit Balamb Garden. With a final gurgle, the Captain slumped to the ground, feeling briefly grateful that he'd be dead before the explosions occurred. 

The missiles would miss the Garden. But that was someone else's problem. 

* * *

**Esse's Expected Explanations: **Huhn, the only reason you'd be reading this is if ya wanted t' know exactly what the change to the plot was, no? 'Kay then, here it is: Selphie set the error ratio on the missiles to 100%. In the game, the captain was able t' get them back on course. Here--he didn't. Simple as that. Instead of that pretty scene where Garden flies out of their path in the nick of time, Garden starts to flyjust in time t' see Balamb blasted to little bits. 

**Second possible question: **Which *she* died? Well, I'm gonna leave that up to your discretion. I know who *I* think died, but if I'd wrote who, I'd get blamed for pickin' on her, and whatnot. So, use your own best judgement. 

**Third possible question:** What the hell's going on in the ruins of Balamb? Well, one thing I sorta missed from FFVIII were the un-dead. There's hardly any. When I wrote about the murdered garrison in _Small Favors_, and mentioned the possibility of them turning revenant, it got me to wondering. So--another look at the idea. The other Final Fantasies were full of ghosts, zombies, ghouls, and so on. I figured they had t' be in VIII as well; we just never got the chance to see them. 

^^;; So, whadja think? Hated it? [Write ][1]t' me, and keep me toasty warm by the strength of your convictions. Think ya just wasted 15 minutes of your life, never t' be seen again, and want recompenses? Feel free t' [let me know][1], and I'll send ya an air kiss t' make it all better. With any luck, now that this is taken care of, I'll be able t' return t' happier stuff Which *doesn't* include _IMoS_! Gotta wait for another angst-frenzy for that 

   [1]: mailto:essenor3@aol.com



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